


A Power, Freely Given

by Blue_Pandas



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Don’t copy to another site, Edging, Established Relationship Tom/Cedric, Gen, Light Smut, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Non-religious Angels and Demons, OC Antagonist, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Past Rape/Non-con, Pre-Relationship, magical slavery, mostly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:28:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24208216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Pandas/pseuds/Blue_Pandas
Summary: Angels and demons can live forever but that doesn’t mean they will. A killer stalks them, sacrificing immortals for power. Harry is a worn-out psychic, and he has no interest in getting involved. However, when angels and demons knock on his door to collect on his demonic debt, he has to choose whether to risk attracting the attention of a mortal with the power of an immortal or lose his magic forever.
Relationships: Cedric Diggory/Harry Potter, Cedric Diggory/Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Cedric Diggory/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Comments: 21
Kudos: 258





	A Power, Freely Given

**Author's Note:**

> The rape/non-con warning about a past sexual assault between Harry and an incubus. Harry has flashbacks and discusses this with Tom and Cedric. It may be triggering, so please keep this in mind. Remember, the back button is your safeword! 
> 
> Beta read by [trashgoblinwizardparty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashgoblinwizardparty).
> 
> Inspired by: Dresden Files by Jim Butcher, Kate Daniels by Ilona Andrews, Guild Hunter by Nalini Singh, Alex Craft by Kalayna Price, and Good Omens (TV series).

The first time Harry sees Tom, he thinks he sees a ghost. In Harry’s defence, blood is trickling down the man’s face, and he looks pale, as though he is close to fading. He’s walking in shambling steps on the pavement outside Harry’s small house. Harry turns away and pulls the curtains closed. The city is full of ghosts, aftermaths of magical beings who died, usually from a violent death. He does not need to let them know there is someone here who can see them.

Harry does not think of it again until a week later when someone knocks on his door. He reaches out with his psychic senses, and they return without a positive magical identification. Likely human, then. Hoping to get this over with quickly, Harry opens the door, half-dressed in a robe, hair a bird’s nest, and glasses askew. The sight of the very-not-a-ghost-and-probably-not-human-despite-what-his-powers-say man has him staring wide-eyed for long seconds until he remembers his manners. “Can I help you?” he asks brusquely. Okay, so maybe not so much his manners as his voice.

“Hello, my name is Tom,” the man says, smiling prettily. How powerful must he be to give his name so freely to a stranger? Then again, power is not a question considering he looks completely whole, no sign of injury. “I’m here investigating a disturbance from a week ago.”

“How may I help?” Harry asks, making no move to invite the man in. His hearth spells are strong, but all hearth spells can be bypassed with an invitation, and unlike a witch, he can’t just spin new ones after this man leaves.

“Did you see anything or hear anything seven days ago around three in the morning? There was a large illegal ritual performed in a building close by, and we’re tracing the ritualists.” 

“Who are you with?” he asks warily.

Tom pulls out a badge. Darkheart. 

Fuck, it’s something infinitely worse than a ghost—a demon. Harry tries to slam the door in his face, but a hand pushes back, holding the door open with immortal strength. He breaches Harry’s hearth, showing no sign that he’s affected despite the diminished power Harry knows must have occurred. “Are you new to the realm? Because I have to tell you, trying to enter someone’s house without permission is just bad form,” Harry says, trying to keep his voice steady.

“You should tell me what you saw and then I’ll leave you alone,” Tom says calmly. “I know you were awake.” 

Fucking fuck. He hadn’t thought the ghost—or not-a-ghost, he supposes—had seen him. “I only saw you. Now get out.”

Tom pulls out a black and orange business card. “No need to be rude. Call if you think of anything else, pretty darling. I’ll be seeing you around.”

The pet name makes Harry blush. The implicit threat makes him furious. He snatches the card and pushes Tom out. This time Tom lets him, and the door shuts behind him. “Useless, the lot of you,” he mutters to his hearth spells but it’s not their fault. He didn’t pay enough to keep out a demon because he never thought they would come to his door. Harry deals with ghosts, and this is definitely above his non-existent paygrade.

Harry looks at the card in his hand. It’s warm to the touch and smells slightly of brimstone. Darkheart, agency of demonic affairs. A phone number is listed at the bottom.

An illegal ritual. Curse it all. Why can’t he just have some peace? He’s not an idiot. Relocating to a motel for a few days for an impromptu vacation will do him some good.

Only, before he gets a chance to finish packing a bag, someone else knocks on his door. Human to his senses. Harry ignores it at first, but the knocker is persistent. He gives in and opens the door. It’s another beautiful man, dressed in a pristine pale grey suit. “Good afternoon, sir,” the man says, a cheerful smile on his face. “I’m here investigating a disturbance reported in this area a week ago.”

“What group are you with?” Harry asks because he’s learned from his experience with Tom. Who says you can’t teach a psychic new tricks? 

The man hands Harry a white business card with glints of gold engraving on the side and pretty silver indentations. Lightrose—the angels—and another phone number. Curse it all. 

Despite the mythology hailing angels as warriors of good and demons as bringers of evil, things are infinitely more complicated. They are more similar than some would care to admit, with a capricious, callous nature and disregard for all others, magical or not. Having a demon and an angel knock on his door on the same day is _not a good thing._

“I didn’t see anything of note,” Harry says stiffly. “Good day, sir.” 

The angel, unlike Tom, allows Harry to shut the door in his face. He stares at his wards and slides down against the door until he’s hugging his legs to his chest. How does he get into these things? He didn’t see anything at all, but he doubts they’ll accept that for an answer. 

Harry gets up and goes to his bedroom. He tosses in his duffle bag a change of clothes, not bothering to fold them. They land on top of his athame and magical charms that won’t do much against angels and demons. 

He takes a taxi to the closest gate, crosses over to the peaceful fae realm of living forests, pays the fee for his very own room in one of the treehouse motels, and crashes.

* * *

“I’m starting to think you’re stalking me,” he tells Tom flatly when the damned demon shows up at the platform outside his room.

“Was there something wrong with your lovely house?” 

“There seems to have been an infestation of pests,” Harry bites out before he can stop himself. 

Tom lets out a hearty, un-demonic laugh and pushes the door open. “Are you having difficulty finding a nice place?” he asks with false sincerity, looking around the elegant room. “I could help you out, you know. All you have to do is talk to me.” 

“I did talk to you,” Harry grits out. “I didn’t see anything. Feel free to let Lightrose know too.”

He spins and stares at Harry, all cheer gone. “Lightrose was there?”

“Yes?”

“Who was it?” 

“I don’t know. I didn’t exactly stand around and ask for his name.”

“Call me if you see him again.”

“Fine,” Harry says when he means _not bloody happening_. He’s done with demons and angels and magic. “Now get out.”

“You should find your manners,” Tom chides as he swans out. “Who knows when someone might take offence and decide to teach you a lesson.” 

But he already knows.

That night, Harry is tired but also still wide awake. He does his breathing exercises, tries to feel loose-limbed and relaxed or whatever, and closes his eyes. Finally, he gives in and does what has become a goddamn nightly routine no matter how much he tries to stop.

Everyone has addictions. Maybe not to drugs, but they’re addicted to a certain food, a favourite park, a jog at six in the morning, something. Harry thinks his is pretty damn weird though. 

He strips off his pyjamas and pants and gets a towel from the bathroom. There’s no lube, but that’s all right. He’s learned to like it when it burns a little. He wraps a hand around his soft cock and strokes how he likes it, pressing a finger to the slit and drawing out a low moan. His hips thrust into his hand and his cock hardens slowly. He goes slow and steady until he reaches the edge, and then, he stops. 

His hips chase after the pleasure, and he lets out a whine that’s too damn loud in this empty room. His fingers grasp at the sheets, and he pants, waiting for his arousal to die away. Finally, his cock softens, and he no longer feels like the mere act of someone breathing too close is going to make him come. Harry grasps his cock again and starts the torturous, blissful act of edging himself once more. 

He would say that he doesn’t know why he craves this, except he does. He used to be fine until an incubus held him prisoner for twenty-eight hours and tortured him for every single minute. He remembers the helpless pleas for mercy falling from his lips as a mouth worked his achingly hard cock and two fingers fucked his arse. He remembers being driven to orgasm again and again until he came dry and his cock and prostate ached from overstimulation. He remembers a low laugh against his ear and then a mouth sucking his cock, forcing him into another painful orgasm.

Now, Harry doesn’t beg himself, but he doesn’t let himself come either. He doesn’t know if it’s a psychological thing or a magical thing, but after five times of getting close to orgasm and stopping, he wipes the smears of pre-come away and finally falls into a deep sleep, cock still angry and hard.

* * *

The next day, he gets two visitors on his doorstep. Tom and the angel are striking to look at together, both handsome in their own ways. “I see you two found each other,” he snarks because he’s still tired and irritated. “What do you want.”

“Someone’s grumpy today.” Tom smirks and holds up a bag. “I come bearing gifts.” 

“Bribery doesn’t work on me.” The bag makes him want to back away in case it’s holding a magical trap, but showing fear might be an even worse option. “Look, I really, really didn’t see anything, and your investigation will be better off, oh, I don’t know, investigating evidence and actual witnesses.”

“You’re a class 5 psychic,” the angel says.

“Maybe,” Harry says warily. “Why?”

“Do you want to come take a look around with us? Maybe tell us what you see?”

He doesn’t even have to think about it. “No.”

They share a look. Tom holds out his hand and a flaming scroll drops out from a pocket dimension. He hands it to Harry.

The flames don’t burn, and he reluctantly accepts the parchment. Harry unties the blood-red ribbon holding the roll together and drops it. It turns to ash before it hits the ground. He unrolls the scroll and sees elegant blood-red calligraphy.

_Harry James Potter_  
_An Oath, Faithfully Made_  
_Must be Honoured._

It’s a damn summon for him to fulfil his oath of open aid to the demons. Harry wants to shout a refusal, but he feels the magic coiling around him, a tight cage not visible in this realm. If he refuses, his magic will turn against him and destroy itself, leaving him a muggle.

He should have just let the incubus wreck him until it grew bored and sated. Darkheart always collects on its debts, and the price is never worth it. 

“Fine,” Harry growls. He crumples the scroll and shoves it at Tom. “Wait outside and let me pack.”

“Don’t run, Harry,” Tom says. “I’d hate to have to waste my time chasing after you. But, oh, you’d be a delectable catch.”

Harry’s not dumb. He’s not about to run right now. No, escaping the clutches of a demon takes extensive planning, and he intends to start now.

When he steps out with his packed bag, the angel gives him a fond smile. “See? Told you he wasn’t going to run.” 

“I don’t understand how you still believe in honour,” Tom says, rolling his eyes. 

The angel makes to take the bag, and Harry resists for a brief moment before letting it go. They probably want to hold his belongings hostage in case he tries to make a break for it. Locator spells require something the target owns, preferably blood or another bodily fluid. Unfortunately for them, he has nothing he particularly cares for in his bag.

They stop by a car that looks horribly out of place in the fae realm. How pretentious must they be to have driven a car through a gate? The angel opens the door for him, but Harry doesn’t get in. “What’s your name?” he asks. It’s a breach of conduct; he’s asking for power over a magical being. Being forced into working with immortals is making him feel reckless. 

“Cedric,” the angel says. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He even makes it sound genuine.

“Well met,” Harry says shortly, not even bothering to make it sound sincere. He gets in the car, and Cedric circles around to sit beside him. “I’m not going to jump out of a moving car.”

“Hmm? Oh, no, I don’t think you’d break your oath. I just prefer not to sit near the windshield when Tom drives.” 

“That was one time,” Tom grouses as he starts the car. He turns and hands Harry the bag he brought. Pastries.

Harry sets the bag down; he’s never accepting anything from a demon again. Instead, he looks between them curiously. They clearly know each other as more than mere passing acquaintances, and he wonders exactly how close Darkheart and Lightrose are. Then, he doesn’t have any more time to think about it as Tom takes off because, _stars and skies, they’re going to crash._

He looks outside, and it feels like he’s in a horror movie. They pass through green of the fae realm, black landscapes of the demonic, sharp angles of enormous rocks in a deep canyon of a realm he can’t identify, and Harry tries not to throw up from seeing pointy landscape pass too damn close to the car.

A hand touches his wrist. “It’s easier if you don’t look,” Cedric says. 

“This kind of cross-realm travel shouldn’t be possible,” Harry says in shock.

Cedric doesn’t offer an explanation, maybe because there isn’t one to give. The realms can be crossed, but only at specific points of entry and only with careful navigation of the gate. Transits take hours, not minutes.

They come to a sudden stop outside a building close to his neighbourhood. Harry exits the car because he’s never going to let Tom drive him again and instantly freezes. The energy here is _violent_. There is hate and vengeance in the air from furious spirits and remnants of magic.

“Okay?” Cedric asks, touching his arm lightly. The darkness recedes a little, and Harry sucks in a deep breath.

“It’s an evil place,” Harry says. He doesn’t want to go anywhere close to that building. His chest tightens. The oath senses he is trying to break it, and it’s starting to punish him for it. Harry clenches his teeth and takes a step forward. His breathing eases.

Cedric stays at his side with every step, and Harry can feel the evil recoiling from them. Angels aren’t good, not like the stories say, but he supposes it’s not surprising for immortals to have powers that let them fight monsters. Tom oh-so-graciously opens the door for them. 

They walk into a large, empty space. The grey ground is smeared with blood. No, not smears. It’s a runic circle, an enormous one. Psychics don’t have the ability to do standard magicks, and Harry has never studied ritual arrays. “What happened here?” he asks.

“A sacrifice,” Tom says. “A mortal wanted power.” 

“What did they try to sacrifice?” he asks even though he has a feeling he already knows.

“Demons and angels.” 

Harry sucks in a breath. Tom and Cedric aside, Harry always feels a buzzing in his skin when he crosses paths with one of the immortals from the sheer power they give off. How could someone be so _stupid_ as to try and control that? How was it even possible for them to succeed? “That pool of power is uncontrollable. This building should be in pieces.” 

“Apparently not.” Tom and Cedric share a look, possibly using telepathy to communicate before Tom says, “This isn’t the first time. It’s just the first time one of their targets escaped.”

“You,” Harry murmurs. That’s what he saw that night, how a demon looked so damaged.

“Yes.” Tom sneers, kicking the dried blood with a boot. “They made a mistake. Now we know what their base is, we need you to see if you can raise the ones they sacrificed, learn more information.”

“All right,” Harry agrees. He doesn’t think to disagree this time. Sacrificial magic is one of the most dangerous fields out there, only done because it’s also very lucrative. The only better way to gain power is to take what is freely given, and no angel or demon is about to give up what makes them exist. He’s not a hero, not even close, but he can’t just stand aside and watch people die when he can do something about it. 

Harry casts his power out and opens his Sight. There are spirits in this building calling to him, but he’s shielded from them, and their screams are closer to whispers. He turns to the side and slaps a hand over his eyes when he sees Cedric, glowing bright with power and honour. Slowly, he pulls his hand away and closes off his Sight enough to stop him from being blinded. The Sight shows Cedric as a knight, sword in hand. The darkness fears him. Shadows press against the edges of the light and retreat when they burn.

He has to step away in order to see the spirits. Harry takes a deep breath and walks until the light no longer touches him. The spirits fly closer, wings bent and broken on their backs. The spirit world is about _intent_ , and wings or no, if they want to fly, they will fly. 

They want to be heard, and they shout at him. Harry lowers his shields a little for the sound to get through. 

“They killed me!” one shrieks. “They killed me! They killed me!” 

Spirits. He resists rolling his eyes. All the same, immortal or mortal. “Who did this to you?” he asks, hoping at least one is rational enough to answer him.

“Mortal. A filthy mortal who should bow down to their betters,” another snarls and dives at him. Even dead, even depleted by sacrifice, they still contain power, and Harry is knocked through the air. Before he can fall, strong arms catch him and set him on the ground gently. 

Harry looks up and sees Tom, clouded by shades of grey that shift and turn inside and around him, preventing clarity. He has wings too, beautiful wings of blue-black that stretch out behind him. “Are you well?” Tom asks. 

“Yeah,” Harry grunts. “They’re just furious about being dead.” He gets back up and strengthens his shields a little. “Who killed you?” he tries. “What did you see?”

“Hooded grey cloak,” one rasps. 

Great. They’d have a hell of a time tracking down their target. 

“Are you here to bring me peace, mortal?” another asks, voice soft and mournful.

He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, no. A reaper will come by to help you move on.” All psychics have the ability to communicate with spirits, but only sub-designation reapers can show them the next step, and Harry is a diviner.

They have nothing more to say, and he has no promises to offer. Harry pools power into his shields and closes his Sight. The spirit realm fades away from his eyes, leaving behind a creepy building with a runic circle. 

“What did they say?” Cedric asks. 

“A person wearing a grey cloak.”

They roll their eyes, a surprisingly mortal tell, though he supposes angels and demons need some way to show exasperation too. Everyone knows that the hooded grey cloak is the classic crime outfit. There must be millions in the city.

“A single ritualist is new knowledge though. We had been convinced that it must have been a team to handle the power.” Cedric shakes his head and stares at the bloody array. “Tom, do you want to clean the building?”

A cruel smile appears on Tom’s face. “Let’s…not.” He walks to the dried blood and crouches down, holding a hand over a rune. The blood particles float up, rearranging and settling down again. It looks glossy and new but rapidly dries before his eyes until it looks like the rest of the structure. 

“What did you do?” Harry asks. 

“Let’s just say, they’ll have a _hellish_ experience if they try to sacrifice someone here again,” Tom says. 

Demons. “Do you think they will come back?” 

“Since Tom escaped, they’ll consider this building compromised if they’re smart,” Cedric says. “But we’ve met stupid.”

Harry snorts at that. Yeah, he’s met stupid, too. Seems to be universal.

“I’ll set another perimeter ward to let us know if someone with substantial magic comes in,” Tom says. “Wait in the car.”

Cedric seems content to follow Tom’s orders, so Harry follows him out. “How does this work?” he asks. “Lightrose working with Darkheart.”

An amused smile curves across Cedric’s face. “I’m a liaison, specially trained to do so. Furthermore, the treaty between angels and demons has been in place for centuries.” 

“Right,” Harry says, blushing a little. He knows that, and he should know better than to buy into the stereotype that angels and demons are immortal enemies, their inter-species feud stretching past to the dawn of time.

Tom comes out soon enough and drives the short distance to Harry’s small house, thankfully staying in the mortal realm the entire time. “Your home, darling.” 

“That’s it?” Harry asks. 

“Until we have need of you once more.” 

So he’s not freed from his oath yet. Harry counts this as a win though. They know more than they did before. Hopefully, the ritualist is an idiot and will accidentally kill themself.

* * *

The creak of his wooden floorboards wakes Harry up from a light sleep. He rolls out of bed and ducks into his closet, pulling it shut. His hands find his duffle bag, and he pulls the zipper open, wincing at the sound. It takes some digging, but he finds his athame and a handful of charms below his clothes. 

A malevolent force presses against his shields as the footsteps grow louder. His psychic senses tell him the invader is approaching his bed. His breaths sound too loud. The invader comes closer and closer and closer. Stops.

Harry cringes and holds his athame tightly. The door opens. Harry stabs the first thing he sees—a foot—and snaps a shield charm. A bolt of red slams against him, knocking him back a step. Harry shrugs it off and runs forward, pushing the invader aside, hands brushing against stone. He snaps a second charm, a confounding spell, and hurls it at the invader. Without waiting to see it take effect, Harry runs out of his house into the cold air outside.

The streets are dead. Harry rushes next door to a neighbour he’s never spoken to and pounds on the door. No one comes. He tries the next door. Still nothing. Fucking fuck. 

Finally, the lights come on in the fifth house. “What are you doing at this awful hour?” an elderly woman asks, scowling at him. 

“I need your mobile. Please, there’s someone in my house. Please, help me,” Harry rushes out, looking behind him for any sign of the invader. 

“Why don’t you wait here, and I’ll ring the coppers for you?” 

“No, please, I can’t stay.” He can feel the evil approaching. “Do you have a mobile? Please, I’ll return it to you. Please.” He stares at her desperately. His powers tell him she’s a muggle, and he has no explanation to offer, just pleas and a silent prayer he has not made her a target. 

“Very well, young man.” She disappears and comes back with an old mobile. 

“Thank you. Thank you. I’ll return this to you as soon as I can.” Harry runs back out and dials the Darkheart number from Tom’s business card.

“’lo?” grunts a sleepy voice. 

“Something is after me. It went into my house.” 

“Where are you?” Tom demands, all semblance of sleep gone. 

“On the street outside. I hit it with a charm, but I don’t know how long it’ll stay down. It’s bad. It feels bad.”

“Run. I’ll find you soon.” The call clicks off. 

Harry sprints, gripping the mobile reflexively. He can feel the evil following him, gaining with every second. It reeks of fear and violence, and Harry _knows_ that it will kill him if it catches him. 

A force strikes his legs, making him stumble. The mobile drops to the pavement with a clatter. He can’t regain his balance, and he falls forward, slamming into the pavement with his palms and knees. Blinding pain shoots through him, making his vision blackout and his head swim. Harry fumbles another charm. He doesn’t know what this one is, but he throws it in the direction of the attacker anyway.

He hears a loud pop and a scream. His vision clears, and Harry climbs to his feet. His legs hurt, but he still tries to run. He sees the darkness gather in the shadows, and he thinks this is it. This is the moment he gets to see the afterlife from the other side. 

Then, it shoots out, rushes past him, and slams into his attacker. Harry hears an inhuman scream that freezes him in his steps, and he can only stand and watch as they twist and snarl at each other in the air. One is all black smoke that solidifies into swords and shields. The other looks like a twisted gargoyle, stone wings, bright red eyes, enormous hands with sharp claws that grasp at the smoke, and sharp teeth that snarl and try to bite.

The gargoyle pulls free from the smoke and flies off into the skies, stone wings beating against the air. The smoke solidifies into Tom, dressed impeccably in suit and all. “Are you okay?”

“Y-yeah,” Harry stammers and swallows harshly. “What was that?” 

“An enslaved gargoyle,” Tom says grimly. “Let’s get you safe.” 

“Wait. I have to return a mobile,” he says, somehow coherent despite this absolute clusterfuck of a day.

* * *

Harry lets Tom fly him to his flat. It’s his first time in the sky, and he would find it amazing to see the lights of the city blur past him any other time. Now, he just feels cold and numb. They land on the large balcony, designed with no railing for flight-capable beings, and Tom lets Harry in. It’s an elegant place, all white walls and black furniture, artistic pieces on the walls, a beautiful chandelier hanging off the ceiling.

Tom pushes Harry to the couch and brings him a soft fluffy blanket. He presses a cup into Harry’s hands, and Harry sips automatically, tasting marshmallows and hot chocolate.

“Are you busy? That can wait. Come home now. Something happened,” Tom says in a low voice, holding a mobile to his ear. He tosses it on his glossy black table a moment later and stalks over to Harry. “Are you hurt? I smell blood.”

 _Smell?_ “What are you, a werewolf?” Harry grumbles. The shock is starting to wear off, and he feels his palms sting from the heat of the ceramic cup. Harry sets the cup down and looks at his hands. There are cuts with clotted blood from the pavement, and he can see bits of gravel embedded inside. Gingerly, Harry rolls up his trousers. It hurts when he peels the fabric away from where it’s sticky from blood. 

“I’ll get you some ointment and a change of clothes,” Tom says.

“Thanks,” Harry grunts. He feels vulnerable here, no more charms and only an athame to defend himself, and he hates it. He doesn’t want to sit in the home of a demon. He wants to go home and rewind time to before everything went to shite.

Tom comes back with a pair of black sweatpants, a clear jar of a mint-green paste, a towel, and a basin of water. Harry reaches out, but Tom pushes his hand away. “Take off your trousers,” Tom orders.

Harry carefully peels the fabric away from his body, wincing as they scrape his wounds. He pulls the blanket over his lap and watches Tom crouch in front of him. He pours warm water over his cuts, washing away the blood. 

“I’m dripping on your floor,” Harry murmurs. 

“I’ll clean it later,” Tom says. 

Harry falls silent, and watches Tom pat his legs dry carefully. Tom dips his fingers into the paste and rubs it on the wounds. It burns for a few seconds before numbing. 

“Hands,” Tom says. 

Harry holds out his palms and lets Tom wash and put ointment on the cuts.

“Let it dry, and you should be good. I’ll reapply in the morning. Get some sleep.” He brings Harry to a bedroom and shuts the door behind him. 

Harry prods the ointment, and when his finger comes away clean, he pulls on the sweatpants. The bed calls to him, and Harry curls up under the sheets.

He can’t sleep. Harry’s mind is wide awake, and all he can think about is the gargoyle coming after him again. It hits him then that he nearly died. Stars and skies, _he nearly died_. The thought makes him want to throw up. 

He’s so damn cold. Harry pulls the duvet around him tightly and realises that he’s shivering. He can’t control it no matter how hard he tries to stop. His hand reaches down, and before he knows it, he’s palming his cock in his usual nightly routine. 

Harry is not going to masturbate in a demon’s bedroom while wearing a demon’s sweatpants. The thought of being caught or smelling of arousal makes him jerk his hand away, and Harry lets a muffled groan out into a pillow. He hears a knock, and then the door opens. 

“Are you in pain?” Tom asks. 

He thinks about banging his head against the headboard and knocking himself out to avoid participating in this conversation. It seems a bit excessive, so instead, Harry says, “I can’t sleep.” 

“Cedric is here. Do you want to come outside and talk with us?” 

Harry isn’t interested in talking, but he likes the thought of being around someone instead of sitting in a dark room alone. He follows Tom back to the kitchen where Cedric is making a fry up and watches Tom get plates from his cabinets. 

They move around each other easily, Cedric clearly comfortable in Tom’s space. Cedric’s tie is loose, and his coat is tossed on the couch. The sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled up, revealing smooth forearms. Harry watches Cedric cook eggs and sausage and allows himself to be mesmerised by the sizzling and smell. 

For a few minutes, he forgets about what happened less than an hour ago, and he pretends he’s okay. 

The food is delicious. Harry doesn’t realise how hungry he is until he has a plate in front of him, and then he’s eating voraciously. 

“Harry, do you want to tell me what happened?” Cedric asks when they’re finished and washing up.

He drops the plate and winces at the clatter it makes against the metal sink. Everything comes to a halt. The water is still running, but no one else is moving. “It came into my house,” Harry says finally, voice hoarse. He scrubs his plate viciously, ignoring the pain in his hands from the hot water that washes away the ointment and burns his cuts. “My hearth spells weren’t enough. I didn’t see what it was at first, but I knew it was bad.”

“Enslaved gargoyle,” Tom says. “Gargoyles can bypass a lot of wards because the stone exterior makes them appear lifeless.”

Harry shivers. Gargoyles are protectors. What had been done to that one to turn it into something that went against its very nature?

“Did you get a close look at its collar?” Cedric asks. 

“A generic Shadowkey one,” Tom says. 

“New purchase?” 

“Maybe. It was conditioned. No hesitation. No remorse.” 

“What are you talking about?” Harry asks, turning the water off and setting the plates in the drying rack. 

“Shadowkey is one of the biggest preternatural slave trafficking organisations,” Cedric says grimly. “They tend to target gargoyles, werewolves, giants, basilisks, and some higher-level witches and wizards. They’re very mobile, and their reach is enormous. They have spies embedded in several of the major agencies, which is why it’s been so difficult to target. Rumour is that someone managed to get close, but it’s never been confirmed. Lately, the case was transferred from Thirdeye to Lightrose.”

“That’s great—actually that’s horrible—but what does it have to do with me?” Harry demands.

“I’m guessing the ritualists purchased a gargoyle and sent it after you,” Cedric says. “They must have been watching the building.”

“I would have sensed it,” Tom says. 

“Not if it was a long-range surveillance spell. You’re not perfect.” 

“But I come close.” Tom actually looked like he meant it.

Cedric snorts and leans back. “So what’s our next step?” 

“We can call it in, get someone to watch the house in case they come back. Harry stays here,” Tom says. 

Did he hear that right? “Excuse me?”

“They know where you live, and we’ll be declaring your house a crime scene. You’re being targeted, and they’re not going to invade my household.” 

“You can’t be sure of that,” Cedric argues. “They already went after you once. The only reason you’re not a corpse is because they made a mistake or had bad intel.”

“Are you trying to invite yourself over?” A smirk flashes across Tom’s face. “You know you have a standing invitation. There’s no need for…pretences.” Tom presses against Cedric, fitting between Cedric’s legs.

Cedric sighs. “Don’t be an idiot, Tom. This is serious.”

“I’ve never been so insulted in my life,” Tom drawls. 

“I doubt that.” And then they’re kissing, Cedric’s hand on Tom’s nape, Tom’s palms cupping Cedric’s face. 

Harry wants to turn away, but he can’t, too mesmerised by how well they _fit_ together. They’re incredibly attractive apart, explosive together, and stars and skies, Harry needs to go somewhere before clothes start coming off.

“You’re scarring our poor psychic,” Tom says teasingly. 

His cheeks burn, and Harry backs out of the kitchen hastily. “No, you’re not, we can talk later, bye!” he says in a rush and takes off for the guest room. The memories feel less oppressive, and Harry wonders if that’s because an angel is here. He stretches out under the duvet. Sleep comes easily this time, even without his nightly ritual. 

Perhaps foolish, but Harry trusts that nothing will get past a demon and an angel, even if they’re…distracted.

* * *

Six months have passed since he walked away from his psychic eye job, and Harry has forgotten what it’s like to be on a case. It comes back more easily than it should. Mainly, cases involved late nights, lost sleep, and sometimes, ending up on the wrong end of a spell. Morning comes, and he’s awake, running on four hours of sleep. 

Irritatingly, Tom and Cedric look perfect. Harry wonders if they slept together and immediately banishes that thought to the depths of the spirit realms, hoping they can’t read his mind.

“Sleep well?” Tom asks. 

“Yes, thank you,” Harry says automatically. 

“Good. Darkheart has your house under surveillance, but no one has gone back. When you’re ready, we can go look at what the gargoyle left behind and see if we can get a lead on the ritualists.”

He doesn’t want to. Harry got out of the psychic eye business for a reason. The most he does these days is passing a message on to a ghost from a loved one and telling people their houses aren’t haunted. Harry is done with being attacked, drugged, and fucked, literally and figuratively. 

But they aren’t done with him, so he says, “I’m ready now.”

Tom rolls his eyes. “I’ll get you decent clothes and the ointment. Do you need me to help you, or do you want to do it yourself?” 

“I can do it.”

Tom doesn’t try to stick him in a suit, thankfully. He has a pair of jeans that are slightly too long and a button-up that Harry has to tuck in. The cuts don’t hurt anymore, but he dutifully rubs Tom’s ointment on them anyway. 

They drive to his flat, and Harry wants to ask why a demon who can fly owns a car, except he’s too busy staring at the ground and not the bizarre landscapes they whiz past. Tom pulls up to the front of the house and pulls out a mobile. “Any incidents?” A pause. “We expected this. Get a team here to secure the scene. We’ll set a perimeter alert when we’re gone in case they try again.” He hangs up and steps out of the car. 

Harry doesn’t want to go in. This is his safe haven, except it’s anything but safe. The door is thrown open, and the hinges are broken. Harry grimaces and forces himself to walk in. He hears the creak of the floorboards, likely the sound that saved his life. His living room is cold from the night chill but clean. Other than the door, there is no sign of an intruder. 

His bedroom is another story. There is a small dried pool of blood on the ground. “I wounded the gargoyle,” Harry remembers. It’s a faint memory now, fogged over by his attempts to block it out. 

“What did you use to break the skin?” Cedric asks. 

“My athame. It’s charmed to cut through anything but its sheath. I use it to deal with malevolent spirits that try to attack me.” 

Cedric lets out a low whistle. “That’s a pretty nice enchantment.”

And hellishly expensive. 

“Do you feed it?” Tom asks, crouching over the blood. 

“I have a salt-copper mix I soak it in every month for a few hours.”

“Not blood?” 

“I don’t deal with blood magic,” Harry says sharply. Blood magic is a sharply regulated speciality, and unauthorised use is heavily punished with fines and imprisonment. 

“Not what I was implying,” Tom says smoothly. “If we can collect the blood here and there are traces of it on your athame, we can devise a tracking spell to find the gargoyle.”

“Is that enough?” Cedric asks, looking at the blood. It’s definitely not a lot, and it seems to have soaked into his wooden floor.

“It’ll have to be,” Tom says. 

Harry hears a car pull up out front and flinches. His heart beats faster in his chest, and his nails dig into his palms. Tom steps around him and goes outside. Harry follows cautiously. 

It’s Darkheart. He can feel their demonic energy the moment he steps out. There are so many of them that it threatens to overwhelm him.

One of them is a familiar power. _Incubus._ Nausea and fear rise in him, and Harry backs off. “I have to get out of here,” he says. “I have to go. I have to.” He looks around frantically for an exit that doesn’t involve getting close to the incubus.

Cedric grips his forearms tightly. “You’re safe. They’re a crime scene team here to evaluate the situation and collect evidence.” 

“You don’t understand.” Harry struggles in his grasp, and Cedric releases him. 

“All right. Shh, it’s okay. I’ll get you away from here. Sit here for a moment, darling, okay? I’ll talk to Tom, and I’ll be right back. Will you be good for me and stay here?” 

Harry presses himself against the arm of the couch where Cedric puts him. He’s acting irrationally. A part of his brain recognises that. The rest of him just wants to get the fuck away from every incubus in this realm and the next.

He focuses on his breathing, counting seconds as he inhales and exhales. Cedric comes back, and he folds his arm around Harry’s side in a half-embrace. He walks Harry out the door, his body blocking Harry’s line of sight to the incubus. It doesn’t matter though; Harry can _feel_ the incubus, and he wants to scrub himself clean of the energy. 

Cedric pushes Harry into the passenger seat of Tom’s car and circles around to take the driver’s seat. They take off through the streets, thankfully staying in this realm. “What about Tom?” Harry asks after he realises Cedric isn’t going to ask what set him off. 

“He’ll fly or I’ll go back and get him,” Cedric says. “We can go look at your athame and get a location spell set up for when Tom gets the blood.”

“Okay.” The trip takes significantly longer, but Harry strongly prefers Cedric’s driving over Tom’s. He watches the mortal landscapes pass as Cedric follows traffic laws and safety regulations. There are spirits ambling along the side of the road, some even in the middle. They drive through the dead, and Harry looks away. He thinks about explaining the incubus situation, but it’s none of Cedric’s business. They’ll be out of his life after this disaster, and he’ll get to hide away in his house again.

* * *

The athame is coated with dried blue-green gargoyle blood when Harry pulls it out of its sheath. It’s dull under the artificial light, and the sight sickens him a little. Normally, there is no blood—spirits don’t bleed in this realm after all, and if there is, he cleans it immediately to prevent the metal from degrading. Then again, it’s a good thing he didn’t think to clean the blade last night. “Will this work?” he asks. 

Cedric looks at the athame. “Hopefully. It’s silver, right?”

“Yes.”

Cedric waves his hand. The furniture in the living room rearranges itself to the side, clearing a large space in the middle. He drops to the ground, chalk in hand, and starts drawing. 

It’s a mesmerising sight. Cedric draws a perfectly round circle by freehand, then several intersecting lines inside so that they form points along the edge and a smaller circle in the middle. In the spaces between the points, he draws runes in beautiful calligraphy. When he’s done, the entire array is two metres in diameter. His palms are covered in chalk dust, and he carefully steps out of the circle. 

“Lunch?” Cedric asks as though he didn’t just do higher-level spell work in an hour when it should have taken him hours, compasses, protractors, and rulers.

“Sure,” Harry says faintly, trying to wrap his head around who he’s making company with right now. He watches Cedric turn the oven on and take out bread, pasta, tomato sauce, clams, eggplant, and cilantro. “How long have you and Tom been together?”

Cedric flashes a smile. “Seven years.” He cuts the bread with a knife and adds oil, garlic salt, and basil in quick moves. 

“And it works even with you working for different organisations?” 

“We met on the job actually. Tom and I occupy similar positions in Darkheart and Lightrose.” 

“Love at first sight?” Harry teases. 

“Love fifteen years later,” Cedric corrects.

“Really? That long?” 

“Well, we weren’t officially cooperating for ten of those years. He was the absolute bane of my existence, and I spent all my time finding a way to win, get more information, and close cases faster. We lied, tricked, and stole. Then, we realised we could get more done if we worked together, and the next two years were spent dodging Lightrose and Darkheart as we met secretly. Over time, we convinced our organisations to consider collaborating. We started working openly together, and things fell into place.” Cedric cracked a smile. “Or maybe Tom manipulated things so that they would fit.” As the alarm of the oven goes off, he finishes the last piece and places the tray inside. The timer is set, and the other ingredients are tossed into pots and pans. 

“Do you spend most of your time in the mortal realm?” 

Cedric nods. “We’re unconventional and not exactly welcome in the angelic realm, and Tom gets irritated if he has to stay in the demonic realm for more than a day. Short trips are fine, but this is home.”

“What are the realms like? I’ve only ever seen pictures. And when Tom was driving, I suppose. How does he travel through so many realms at once?” 

“I’ve rarely been to the angelic rare, but it’s very sharp. The cliffs end in lethal points, the leaf edges can bloody you, and don’t even get me started on the flowers. They live in the cliffsides that stretch up miles into the sky. Their preferred mode of travel is flight, so you have to watch where you travel, for paths suddenly end, and you may walk to your death. On the other hand, the demonic realm is hot and humid. Demons live in large family units, sometimes in hundreds, and there are pockets of community scattered across. The sun appears once every thirteen years for a few minutes, so the majority live nocturnal lifestyles, even on another realm. As for Tom, he’s has special talents.”

“Are you saying filthy things about me? Such improper character, for shame!”

Harry jumps and turns to see Tom toeing off his shoes and hanging up his coat. The door is still closed, and Harry tries to figure out how Tom got in. 

“Get your head out of the gutter,” Cedric says dryly. “How did it go?” 

“Fine. Quick. I do adore competence. I have the blood, so we can start the ritual after lunch. How much longer?”

“Ten minutes.” 

The oven timer goes off. Cedric washes his hands and takes the tray out without bothering with oven mitts. Harry winces, expecting to hear the sound of sizzling flesh, but Cedric’s hands appear fine and smooth when he sets the tray on the counter. 

“Harry, will you grab a large plate for me?” he asks. “Cabinet over your head.”

He grabs one, feeling oddly touched that they’re treating him as though he belongs there and isn’t just a guest intruding on their space. Lunch is a quick, delicious affair, with light-hearted conversation, and Harry learns more about how Tom and Cedric met—during a chase through a mall, shouting obscenities at each other as hellfire rains over their heads. However, soon enough, dishes are drying, and Tom is standing with Harry inside Cedric’s runic circle. 

“Remember to breathe,” Tom says with a crooked smile. “You’re here because you have a connection to the blood, the athame, and the gargoyle. I’ll be doing the heavy lifting, and I’ll be right beside you no matter what you see. Look around as much as possible. Use your mind, not your body. You have until the candle burns out.”

Harry nods. He’s never done blood magic before. It’s highly regulated for a reason; before the laws were in place, people died from rituals that grew too large for them to handle. Then, some realised they could use the blood of other people, and bodies started piling up.

The blood of the gargoyle sits between them in a clear plastic bag, all flaky and blue-green. The bloody athame sits beside it along with an unlit candle. Tom reaches out and takes Harry’s hands. There are no magic words or flashy movements, but the chalk around them starts to glow in soft white light. The candle starts burning. A dark mist rises from the ground, surrounding them until Harry thinks he’s choking. He can no longer see Tom, and he grips Tom’s hands tightly. 

The mist clears. He sees a room, but it’s not Tom’s flat. Harry is looking at a large fireplace. The flames burn high, and eyes stare at Harry from within, pleading for help. He tries to reach out to the elemental, but his hands pass clean through. 

There is nothing he can do. He’s with Tom, and spirits can’t interact with any realm other than the spiritual. 

Harry flinches but he turns away from the elemental. Rather, the room turns, while Harry stays in place. It’s not unlike manipulating the spirit world, where intent is the most powerful magic of all, and it comes instinctively to him. Harry is in a large, imposing room. The fireplace is just the beginning. There is a sleeping gargoyle on a stand, its foot damaged. Black curtains hanging over the windows. A blood-red carpet covers the floor. An unlit chandelier hangs from the ceiling. 

He leaves the room and enters a dark hallway. Picking a random direction, he travels to the end and down the stairs. The lighting is brighter down here along with wooden walls and floors. He sees a large door. It’s shut, but he’s not tangible here. Harry shuts his eyes and lets the door move through him. 

He’s now outside. The grass is a rich green and goes all the way to the treeline of a dark forest. Harry circles the property, looking for landmarks he can use to determine where the estate is, but unfortunately, there is nothing distinguishing other than not-city. 

Maybe he can find a photo of or more information about the owner. Harry goes back into the manor and searches rooms for personal items. There are papers in an office, but they’re neatly stacked, and the first is a blank contract about housing. Trying to see the others just makes him fall through the desk and the floor.

He shouldn’t hurt when he falls in the spirit world, but his mind believes he should. Phantom pain radiates from his tailbone. Harry rubs his arse and looks around, trying to figure where he is. It’s a stone floor, unlike the wood he saw in the rest of the house. There are no windows, and Harry assumes he’s in the basement. 

Looking closer, Harry saw parts of stone that were darker than others. He readjusts his grasp on this realm such that he is floating, back almost touching the ceiling, to get a clear view of the design. It’s another runic circle. Half is crude, drawn with a shaky hand. The circle is lopsided, even angular in some parts. The lines are wriggly. The runes are a mess. The other half is neat perfection of even lines and elegant runes. Harry studies the array, committing the major runes to memory. He doesn’t know what this is supposed to do, but he’s guessing Lightrose or Darkheart have the resources to figure it out.

“Well, what do we have here?” A short person in a grey cloak, hood over her head descends down the stairs and stares straight at him. 

This shouldn’t be possible. Harry isn’t present in the mortal realm. But there is no mistaking the greedy eyes boring into his soul. “You’re the one who’s been sacrificing the angels and demons,” he says aloud. 

“And you’re the psychic who should have stayed in your own land.”

The array starts glowing beneath him. Right. Time to get the fuck out. Harry flies up through the ceiling, but he does not end up in the office. 

Ropes bind his hands over his head, securing him to the headboard. He’s wearing a white and green plaid button-up that’s partially open. His jeans are also unbuttoned and torn in a leg. Harry hasn’t seen these clothes in months since he burnt them. This isn’t real. This can’t be real.

Someone walks in. He appears almost completely human, but his eyes are a fiery red. “Such a delectable sight,” he purrs, stalking closer. Against his will, Harry starts to harden from the sexual energy of the incubus.

And he starts screaming.

Harry fights against the bonds, and then, he’s free. His legs strike something hard, and he falls. A soft surface catches him. The room comes into focus. Tom and Cedric are staring at him, worry clear in their eyes. The chalk array is broken, smeared by his rapid escape. The candle is almost burnt to nothing. 

He’s in Tom’s flat. He’s not in that damn hotel room. He’s okay. Slowly, his breaths start to slow.

Cedric breaks the silence. “What happened? Are you okay?” 

“I tripped a…a, um, a memory spell. Must have been a security thing.” He rubs his forehead and tries to suppress a memory he wants no part of. He’s _wrongwrongwrong_ , and he tries to talk, ignore this crushing sensation. “I saw someone. Feminine voice. She was cloaked, and I didn’t get a good look at her face. She stood at about 165 centimetres. She was in a big property, lots of surrounding land, so not the city, and she has more slaves than just a gargoyle. I think she must have some kind of psychic ability because she saw me.”

Tom grimaces. “Right then, you’re definitely staying here.” 

Harry doesn’t have it in him to argue. He’s missing something, something enormous, but the fear threatening to grab a hold of him once more is stopping his mind from figuring out exactly what it is.

“We’re sorry,” Cedric says quietly. “We wouldn’t have suggested this if we had known it would place you in more danger.”

Harry shakes his head. “She already sent a gargoyle after me, so she must have known who I was and where I lived. At least, we now know more about her. There must be something we can do to figure out where she is.” His words some out come out calmly, hiding the fear choking him.

“Did it look like the mortal realm?” Tom asks. 

“I saw green grass and trees, so possibly, but several other realms also have those features.”

“Maybe we can run down the slave angle,” Cedric muses. “We know she purchased from Shadowkey.”

“Who’s on the case at Lightrose?” Tom asks.

“Cho.”

“Set up a meeting.” 

“You know she doesn’t like you. Or anyone who tries to interfere with one of her cases.”

Tom rolls his eyes. “Fine. You meet with her, and I’ll track down a list of psychics. Unless, Harry, do you have a database?” 

He shakes his head. “I never worked at an official agency.”

“If she agrees, I’ll take Harry with me to meet Cho. Don’t terrorise the poor psychics, Tom.”

A smirk. “I would never.”

Cedric rolls his eyes and turns to Harry. “Don’t believe a word he says. That’s the only way you’ll survive around him.” 

Harry lets out a tiny smile and uncurls his hands. He rearranges himself on the couch he fell onto, shifting so his back is to the corner and he can face both Tom and Cedric. “I think I figured that out when I met him,” he says dryly.

“I’m offended,” says Tom, who doesn’t look the least bit bothered. “Here I am, opening up my space, sharing my food, and you respond to my benevolence with such cruelty?” 

“Pretty sure we’re not the cruel ones here,” Cedric says. 

Tom lets out a huff, but he doesn’t hide his smile. Harry watches him walk to the kitchen. 

Cedric sits beside Harry when Tom’s out of sight. “How are you doing?” he asks gently. 

“Fine,” he says automatically. 

“Don’t lie to me.”

“Okay, not fine.” Harry shakes his head and pushes a hand through his hair roughly. “I just want this to be over. It’s been a shite few days.”

“I know. I’m sorry. We wouldn’t have pulled you into this if we had known how it would turn out.”

“Did you come to my house that day just to ask if I had seen anything? Or was it always a plan to call in a debt?”

“I didn’t know about the debt until the motel,” Cedric says. “You were a potential witness before, the only magical person in that neighbourhood. Then, we needed a psychic to examine the scene for spirits, and there were alternatives, but your name came up, and you had a decent psychic eye reputation, so we picked you.”

“Do you know why I owe a demonic debt?”

“It wasn’t in the file.”

“I was hired for a job. It was a simple one, just to ask a spirit why the will had been changed. While I was at the morgue to obtain some of her belongings for a bribe, an incubus saw me. He wanted me, so he took me. Then, he fed.” _Fed._ Such an innocent word that did little to describe what had truly happened. “The fear spell just triggered the memory.” Harry hugs his knees to his chest and stares past Cedric out the window, noting Tom’s return out of the corner of his eye. “I made an open-ended oath. Save me and I’d do anything they wanted. Darkheart came. They collected the favour. The incubus was arrested. I was free. Happily ever after, right?”

“Post-traumatic stress disorder is common after an experience like that,” Tom says, coming closer. He’s holding a cup, and he presses it to Harry’s hands. Hot chocolate, topped with floating marshmallows slowly dissolving.

Warmth fills Harry, partially from the ceramic, but mostly from the care. He might have gotten into this because of a debt, but it had been ages since someone other than his parents cared enough to sit with him, ask if he was all right, and make him a sweet drink. If he got out of this job in one piece, he would treasure these memories. “Thank you. I got therapy after that. Darkheart paid for it. I got my life back, more or less. But I don’t like to think about it, and I realised at the crime scene that I don’t like incubi.” 

“I’ll make sure we keep them off any more scenes you’ll be going to,” Tom says. 

“Thanks.” Harry sips the hot chocolate, sighing as the heat trickles down his throat and chases the last of the fear away. Tom and Cedric sit beside him, almost close enough to touch, and part of him wants to lean over and press his head against a shoulder. He smacks himself mentally. Really? They’re together. Furthermore, he’s known them for three days, and he has bigger things to worry about, such as exactly what’s right in front of him that he can’t see. He’s missing something. He _knows_ it.

“Cho’s open to meeting in five hours,” Cedric announces.

“Great. I’ve sent in a request to Legal to contact Thirdeye for psychic records, but Thirdeye is fighting back. Unless something else comes up, I think the only thing I can do is look up houses in rural areas and see if Harry can identify it.” 

“There was a sacrificial circle,” Harry remembers suddenly. “Stars and skies, I’m so sorry I’m a mess right now. Um, if you get me paper, I can draw it for you, see if maybe it might help.”

“Shh,” Cedric sooths as he rests a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “It’s good you remembered now. Tom?”

Tom gets up, taking Harry’s finished cup as well.

“I swear, I used to be a good investigator,” Harry says, pressing his head into his hands.

“A traumatic memory was forced onto you. Anyone would be struggling after that.” Cedric prods Harry until he looks up. “Do you want a hug?” 

“Yes.” The answer comes out embarrassingly fast, but before Harry has time to apologise, Cedric is holding him tightly. Harry melts in his embrace, and hugs back. He presses his head against Cedric’s shoulder. A soft glow surrounds them, and Harry lifts his head in wonder at the beautiful wings of gold and green that encase them. He wants to touch, but even he won’t commit such a taboo. 

It’s been a long time since he’s touched someone, and soon, Harry grows uncomfortable. How long is an acceptable hug? Is this too much? Will Tom be upset that Harry is hugging his partner? Does Cedric want to let go but isn’t because Harry is holding on to him? 

He lets go and sits back. The wings vanish from his sight, and Harry sees Tom standing by the doorway. He blushes, feeling as though he was caught doing something illicit, but Tom doesn’t look mad. He’s holding a notepad across his chest with one hand and leaning against the wall as he observes them. “Feeling better?” he asks as he walks over.

Harry nods.

“Draw the array while it’s fresh in your memory. Then, go rest up before you see Cho.” 

He scowls at the expectation that he’ll just do what Tom says, but it’s a reasonable order, and he’s not going to kick up a fuss out of spite. Harry’s array isn’t anywhere near as perfect as Cedric’s. His circles are closer to ovals, and his lines shake. His runes are messy, drawn with the slow, careful precision of someone new to ritual magic. “I think it was one of her early attempts at runic arrays,” Harry says, telling him the mess he saw. 

“Possibly,” Tom murmurs. “I’ll dig through my books, see what comes up.” He stares at the array and wanders off, narrowly avoiding the wall.

“We’re not going to get anything out of him for the next few hours,” Cedric says dryly. “Do you want to sleep a bit before we see Cho? Don’t let Tom steamroll you if you don’t want to.” 

“Will you tell me about Cho?” Harry asks instead.

“She’s an angel with Lightrose, been an analyst for about thirty-five years. Her success rate is very high, and she has an eye for patterns and codes. She currently knows everything Lightrose has on Shadowkey, so hopefully, she’ll identify our target.” 

“Why doesn’t she like Tom?”

“They had a clash of personalities when they first met, and neither of them got over it.” Cedric rolls his eyes. “Don’t worry, she’s a professional.”

“All right.” Harry shut his eyes and tilted his head back. He felt drained and tired, and maybe a short nap was the right option. 

“Come on.” Cedric tugs Harry up and guides him to the guest room he stayed in before. He presses a pair of sweatpants into Harry’s hands. “Do you want me to stay?”

His cheeks heat up because the honest answer is yes. He doesn’t want to be alone. He also doesn’t want to be touched. All he wants is another presence, a living one, in the room with him. 

“Yes or no,” Cedric says. “No explanation necessary.” 

“Yes,” Harry says before he can overthink it. 

“All right.” Cedric piles a few pillows up and sits on the left half of the bed, leaning against the headboard.

Harry curls up under the duvet on the right, facing Cedric. His eyes drift shut, and he stretches out under the warmth. Perhaps it’s foolish to feel safe next to an inhuman being with more power at his disposal than Harry could imagine, but he did.

* * *

Cho’s wings are a beautiful, glittery bronze. They hang behind her, almost brushing the floor. It’s the second time Harry’s seen an angel’s wings, and he can’t help but stare. “Cedric,” she greets warmly. “And Harry, I presume.”

“Well met,” Harry responds automatically, jerking his eyes away from her wings to meet her dark eyes. 

“Cedric tells me you saw a Shadowkey buyer.” 

“Yes. Well, kind of. She was cloaked, and I didn’t see her face. 165 centimetres, psychic, owns at least a gargoyle and a fire elemental.”

“There aren’t that many psychics who frequent Shadowkey,” Cho says. She opens a thick manila file and flips through the stack. “There are seven known psychic buyers. Of these, four are women. One is too tall, but the other three fit the height requirement. All have been known to buy elementals, but only two have a verified gargoyle purchase.” She holds out two pictures. 

The first is Ida Sellen, a green-eyed woman with blond hair cropped short. Class 5 psychic. Five-year known association with Shadowkey, last seen two months ago. Her face doesn’t scream slaver, but then again, monsters rarely looked the way stories say they should.

The second is Emma Wills, dark eyes and dark hair. Class 4 psychic. Two-year known association with Shadowkey, last seen a year and a half ago. 

“Any history of blood magic or sacrificial magic?” Cedric asks. 

“None. Unfortunately, we don’t know much about them beyond what public records can tell, and Thirdeye continues to refuse us access, arguing that Shadowkey is vast, and our evidence is circumstantial so we can’t prove these psychics are buyers.” Cho scowls. “I hate this case.” 

“Tom’s pulling official psychic records, but we’ll keep an eye out on these two.” Cedric folds up and tucks the two pages away.

She arches an eyebrow. “So you two are still doing that?”

“Are you judging him or me?” 

“You. Do you really want to spend an eternity with _him_?”

“We might get bored after a few hundred years or so,” Cedric says.

“You’re only a hundred and fifty-three.” Cho rolls her eyes. “I guess I can’t fault you for poor life choices when you’re young. As long as you’re happy.”

“Domestic bliss is overrated, but yes, I am.” 

“Fine then.” She sighs. “Be careful, Cedric. I’d hate to see you on the wrong side of a sacrificial circle.” Her wings rustle as she shivers. 

“Likewise. I’ll see you around.”

“Maybe,” she grumbles. “If this Shadowkey op takes much longer, I’ll just destroy this cursed realm.” 

Cedric laughs and waves goodbye, holding Harry with his free hand. 

They walk out of the office. Lightrose is flight-friendly, which means large open hallways, large doorways for wings, and gaps between the railings on the second floor for take-off and landing. The stairs and elevator are on the far end, and Harry sees angels flying up and down, wings appearing and vanishing. 

“Do you find it strange to use stairs?” Harry asks curiously as they go down the stairwell.

“They feel slow, but I’m around non-flight people enough that I don’t mind.” Cedric opens the front door for Harry, and then, he’s on the ground.

Cedric’s body pins him down, and his beautiful wings are spread around them. A burning heat envelops them, and a hysterical thought crosses his mind. Is this what being cooked alive feels like? 

Then, it’s over, and Cedric yanks him back in through the glass doors of Lightrose, glittering from high-powered wards. “Hellfire,” he spits out. 

“A demon?” 

“Or the power of a sacrificed demon.” For the first time, the shields holding Cedric’s power back falter, and Harry is engulfed by his essence. 

And it’s not angelic.

Harry drops his shields slightly, opening his senses complete to double-check because _what the absolute fuck_. Angels rush past them out the door, and he senses each and every one of them, can pinpoint where they are even with his eyes closed. He can’t identify individual angels, but he knows there are eleven of them on the street. 

He also knows there is one demon within his range, power raging from Cedric sits beside him

The demonic presence disappears as quick as it appears, but Harry knows what he sensed. He doesn’t know what to think. Is Cedric a spy here? Do the angels know he’s a demon? They must, right? Still, just in case, he holds back on his questions as he stares at the flames outside. 

The flames die down from the overwhelming angelic power, but there is no hiding the destruction. The road is burnt, and dark smoke clouds his sight. Hellfire. One of the most destructive substances. It can only be created by demons, but that does not render demons immune from harm. 

Harry remembers Cedric shielding him and turns over belatedly, pushing back to stare at his body. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” Cedric says, shirt in tatters. But his skin is clear, no sign of angry red burns. “I have built-in shields.” He holds Harry tighter. “Are _you_ okay?”

He nods. “Did someone just try to kill us?” A second assassination attempt in less than a week? 

“It’s possible we weren’t the target, but that seems unlikely.” Cedric sighs, wings rustling restlessly around them. “Tom’s going to be pissed. I have to call him.” He takes out a cracked mobile. A piece of the screen falls off, but miraculously, it still turns on. Cedric sets it on speaker. 

It rings twice before Tom answers. “I heard,” is the curt response. “You and Harry?” 

“Safe. I sensed it before the bomb went off.”

“Confirmation of a demon behind the attack?”

“None yet. Lightrose is still on damage control.”

“If it’s not a demon, the psychic just used an incredible amount of power, and she’s going to be looking to replenish it. Stay safe and don’t do anything idiotic.” 

“I love you too,” Cedric says dryly.

“Do you want me there? I can fly over in fifteen minutes.”

Cedric sighs. “Yes, but Darkheart will probably call you in for liaison business. There hasn’t been a demon-on-angel attack this big in decades, and tensions are going to rise, whether it’s a confirmed demon attack or not.”

“Fuck,” Tom says eloquently. “Two-hour check-ins until this is resolved. Did Cho come up with anything?”

“Two possibilities.”

“Hopefully one of them is the right one. We can’t afford to wait for Legal to get the psychic registry right now if she’s escalating this fast.” A pause. “Fuck, Darkheart is calling.”

Cedric exhales. “Lightrose will probably call me soon too. I love you. Don’t do anything dumb. Don’t call anyone an idiot. Be nice.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tom grumbles. “I’ll see you two at home whenever we get off.” 

Two. The easy inclusion of Harry as though he belonged just after a few days was startling, but he shook that off soon enough. Tom just expected him to stay until they resolved the case. Then, he was going back to his home and shutting the door on this chapter of his life.

Cedric’s cracked mobile rings. He looks at the caller and holds the mobile to his ear, no speaker this time. “This is Cedric. Yes, I’m currently here. I understand that, but I have a visitor with me under my protection, and I can’t leave him. He’s vital to an ongoing investigation. Yes. With all due respect, I can’t drop this investigation. It’s highly likely related to the attack. Twenty-four hours. Thank you.” Cedric lowers the phone, just as it pings repeatedly. He checks the cracked screen. 

“Is there a problem?” Harry asks hesitantly. 

“A Darkheart agent was assaulted and kidnapped. It was caught on camera, and their legal department used it to pressure Thirdeye, who just gave in on the psychic files. A courier is sending over the files of every psychic that matched your description to Tom’s flat. The Director wants me to resolve the sacrifice case in a day or hand it off to another agent. Let’s go. Will you be comfortable if I fly us?”

“Yes.”

They get up and walk them to the elevator. Cedric hits the button for the top floor. 

“What do you do for Lightrose exactly?” Harry asks once the door shuts, unable to hold back his curiosity any longer. “I thought you were an angel.”

Cedric’s eyes open in surprise. “I thought you were a diviner.” 

Harry nods. “Yes, but you shield. You and Tom read as muggles.”

He winces. “Sorry, I’ve been so used to people who know I’m a demon that it never occurred to me to introduce my status. When the treaty was established, distrust was high for a long time. The demons and angels each established a position, a liaison between angels and demons. The angels would get a demon, the demons an angel. It’s a very honourable position, but it’s fraught with politics because both sides expect loyalty and espionage on the other side.” Cedric rolls his eyes at that. “Tom was the spy, and I was the loyal knight until we realised it was easier if we cooperated, and recently, work has been easier.” 

Wait. “Does that mean Tom’s an angel?” Harry can’t wrap his head around that. “But he’s so—” He breaks off with a wince, holding back a very negative stereotype of demons. 

Cedric hears what he didn’t say anyway. “He’s very Machiavellian, but then again, a lot of demons and angels are. Angels can be kind or vicious, just as demons can be too. There’s no standard mould.” 

“Right. Sorry. I know that. I swear, I don’t mean to be…judgmental.” He looks away, shamed.

“It’s not your fault. Angels do like to give off the impression they’re pure and good because it helps them get what they want. The PR department is good at controlling perception, but that doesn’t make it accurate.”

“I’ll do better,” Harry promises. 

Cedric grins at him. “Stay around Tom long enough, and trust me, you’ll get over every assumption you ever had about angels.”

Harry was pretty sure that staying around Cedric would also overturn his assumptions about demons. But was he really going to be around long enough for that to happen?

The elevator stops, and they walk out to a small room. Past the glass doors is a large enclosure. They’re high up enough that the wind blows Harry’s hair and the cold penetrates his clothes. Cedric embraces Harry tightly, and his wings come out. In a flash, they’re in the air. 

The last time he flew, he was too much in shock to appreciate it. This time, he’s still in shock, but not as much. Maybe he’s getting used to people trying to kill him. It’s a terrifying thought.

They soar above the city below the cloud layer. A warmth engulfs them, and Harry can see a thin layer of yellow light between his skin and the cold air. Cedric’s hold on Harry is firm, and he looks down at the tiny buildings with little fear. The knowledge that Cedric won’t drop him is bone-deep.

If they weren’t flying, Harry would smack himself. Cedric is in a relationship with Tom, and he’s not going to develop an…interest in _either of them _. He’s not going to think about how much he likes it when Cedric holds him or when Tom made him hot chocolate. He’s only here because of a demonic debt, damn it!__

__“What are you thinking about?” Cedric asks, lips close to Harry’s ear. He doesn’t need to shout; they’re shielded from the scream of high-speed winds, just as they are from the cold air._ _

__“That I’d hate to fall from the height,” Harry lies promptly._ _

__“I won’t drop you,” Cedric says._ _

___I know_ , Harry doesn’t say. _ _

__They start to angle down, and Harry sees the outside of Tom’s flat. They land on the balcony, taking a few steps to regain stability. Cedric unlocks the glass doors, opening them for Harry._ _

__There’s a parcel sitting on the kitchen table, lightly smoking and smelling of brimstone and sulphur. A glowing insignia of wings emerging from the blade of a vertical sword and spread wide sits on top. Harry knows instinctively to stay away even before Cedric says, “Don’t touch that package unless you want to lose a hand.”_ _

__He disappears into a room Harry hasn’t been in and comes back with a phial of a dark liquid. Cedric pours it over the insignia. The sword glows brightly, absorbing the liquid. The wings beat a few times before vanishing in a puff of dark smoke._ _

__“What was that?” Harry asks, wishing he had a better understanding of standard magicks._ _

__“Darkheart confidentiality spell to ensure only authorised users can open the package,” Cedric says. “Tom’s blood was a key.”_ _

__“He just leaves his blood lying around? That seems…dangerous.” Even with the little he does know, Harry understands that blood can be used against its owner._ _

__“For emergencies, location spells, and the like. We keep a small amount hidden in a secure location for each other.” Cedric waves the smoke away and opens the parcel to see a stack of manila folders. Each has a name on the side. They page through until they find Ida Sellen and Emma Wills._ _

__Private psychic records are much more extensive than public records. Both Sellen and Wills have detailed records from first psychic expression, testing results to determine class, employment history, and sub-designations. Sellen is a psychopomp, a psychic who senses fear. Wills is a foreseer, a psychic who had semi-controlled visions of the future. Sellen, like Harry, has parents wealthy enough to fight to keep her out of the public sector, but Wills has a long history of interrogative, espionage, and investigative work, with heavily blacked-out sections._ _

__“What do you think?” Harry asks._ _

__“Wills sounds like the more likely candidate. She would have access to rituals, blood magic, even angels and demons through her work.”_ _

__Harry nods. “Can we look up her address?”_ _

__Cedric takes out his mobile. “Apartment in the city.”_ _

__“And Sellen?”_ _

__“Same.”_ _

__So no big private estate listed, though not surprising. “Sellen has the family wealth to purchase the land though,” he says. Harry looks over the files again. The same feeling as before, that he was _missing_ something gnaws at him. It’s here. It’s right in front of him. But what is it?_ _

__“I’d hate to suggest this, but we have to split up, see if there’s any evidence of a demon being held prisoner, sacrificial magic, anything. It’s a reach, but I don’t know what options we have right now with less than twenty-four hours to go or if Zizia even has that long,” Cedric says grimly._ _

__“Okay, who do you want?”_ _

__“I’ll take Wills. You take Sellen. Recon from a distance, check-ins every two hours. I’ll give you a spare mobile. The killer knows your face, so make sure she never sees you. I’ll give you my mobile, so send a text whenever you need to check in, and I’ll do the same. If either of us don’t check in, wait ten minutes just in case, then call Tom.”_ _

__Harry nods. “Sounds good.” He ignores the way his heart is starting to race. He wishes that there was more he can do. Psychics aren’t that powerful, which, he supposes, is why she’s sacrificing immortals._ _

* * *

__Harry can see Sellen moving. Her window is open, and she appears to be cleaning. Harry has a feeling Cedric chose Wills because they agreed she was the more likely killer, and he keeps fretting. Two-hour check-ins are a good idea, and they passed the first one half an hour ago. He knows Cedric is safe, has read and reread the message._ _

__Stakeouts are boring. Harry fidgets and gnaws on his fingernails. He’s read the damn paper a hundred times by now, and his butt is numb from sitting on the hard bench. Sellen disappears from his line of sight. A moment later, she gets into a car and drives off._ _

__Cedric had all but given Harry approval to break in, and Harry prays Lightrose will give him a good lawyer if he gets caught. The window is still open, and Harry checks the lining for a ward._ _

__The hearth magic bites at him once he passes the threshold, and it feels as though a thick metaphysical scarf is muffling his psychic senses. Harry walks through the flat, using his sleeve to open doors and closets. He feels like a criminal, and he can’t wait to get out of here and back to Tom and Cedric’s flat._ _

__There are psychic books sitting on the bookshelf, beginner ones that he owns too. His live in his parents’ house. Beside them are more advanced ones, specific to psychopomps_ _

__It slams into Harry all of a sudden. Ida Sellen is the killer. She hit him with her magic when she caught him; spells don’t work on spirits, but psychic powers do. His memories are psychopomp-induced. Psychopomps sense fear, but they also have a lesser-known skill—the ability to _create_ fear. Stars and skies, he has to get out of here. Harry goes to the window, tries to climb out, but a shock zaps him. Fuck. No ward blocking his entry, but one preventing his exit._ _

__He fumbles his mobile and tries to make a call for Cedric, but suddenly, he’s back in the room. The incubus is pinning him down. His chest is splattered with dry come, and his cock _hurts_ from coming so many times._ _

__“Such a pretty pet,” the incubus purrs. “Delicious.”_ _

__Harry clenches his fists, digs his nails into his palms. This isn’t real._ _

__The illusion is ripped from his mind as blood trickles down his arms from the crescent moons made from jagged nails. Ida Sellen stands in front of him, toying with the mobile._ _

__“Interesting,” she says and tosses the mobile carelessly aside. “I’m curious, why are you working with the demons?”_ _

__There are a million answers. Because he has a conscience. Because Tom and Cedric asked. But which is the answer that’s going to stop Sellen from killing him? She doesn’t think highly of demons, not with the way she sneers the word. “Because I owe a debt,” Harry says finally. “Why are you doing this?”_ _

__“Why else? For power. For a chance at immortality.” Sellen stares at him, eyes wide and angry. “How can you live like this, see what happens after death, and not want to stop it from happening? How many ghosts have you seen that can’t move on? How many violent deaths have you encountered?”_ _

__“We see violence because peaceful deaths don’t leave behind spirits. It takes a strong emotion to make a ghost,” Harry says, the textbook answer._ _

__“We’re surrounded by violence on all sides. We have narrow misses every day. What use is the power of a psychic? What use is speaking to the dead when you might die the next day? We deserve _more_.” _ _

__“I think a psychopomp is pretty damn powerful,” Harry says dryly. If she had been a diviner like him, he wouldn’t be in this mess right now._ _

__“My control is marvellous, isn’t it?” Sellen preens a little._ _

__Harry nods. “I haven’t met a psychic with better control,” he says, hoping to get her to see him on her side. How long has it been? Ten minutes? Twenty? However long it’s been, it’s not nearly enough for Cedric to know something is wrong. His mind scrambles for a distraction. “How did you contain the power?” His fingers reach behind him slowly for his athame._ _

__A cruel smile curves around her face. “Let me show you.”_ _

__A flash of red._ _

__He is unconscious before he hits the ground._ _

* * *

__Harry wakes to a hard surface. Something sharp digs into his leg. He wiggles his toes and fingers, checking for sensation. Opening his eyes, Harry looks around as much as he is able to without moving. He doesn’t know if there’s an advantage to Sellen assuming he’s still out, but at this point, he’s grasping at straws._ _

__Instantly, Harry recognises where he is: the basement of the estate they never located. His heart sinks. How long has it been? Even if he missed the check-in, how will they find him?_ _

__The darkness threatens to swallow him whole. When he had been here through the locator spell, either because he breached a hearth or because his powers only exist in his physical form, Harry hadn’t noticed anything was amiss. He can’t miss it now. How many has Sellen killed? How can she breathe here, surrounded by the spirits of her sacrifices?_ _

__Harry pools his power into his shields, thickening them until the pervasive feeling fades. Now, he still wants to throw up, but that’s just from being held captive in the middle of a sacrificial circle._ _

__Some time since the locator spell, Sellen has fully modified the array. Now, Harry is surrounded by equidistant even lines, perfectly drawn circles, and elegant runes. This is the work of an expert. In the corner lies a body, a woman with curly red hair covering her face. “Hello?” he calls out._ _

__No answer. Stars and skies, he hopes she isn’t dead._ _

__There are no bonds holding him down. Harry doesn’t see Sellen in his line of sight, and he climbs to his feet. He takes a single step and smacks into an invisible wall when he tries to pass the border of the centre circle. Harry tries to push through, but it’s like trying to fight a brick wall._ _

__Desperate, Harry tries to reach out with his magic in the hopes it will miraculously do something it has never done or give him some kind of offensive ability. Nothing. The only change is that now Harry knows is there are seven spirits in this room, all trapped in the circle with him and held at bay only by his slim shields._ _

__A door creaks open. Sellen descends down the stairs. She picks up the stranger and drags her away. The body thumps as she hits each step, and the door slams shut._ _

__Harry stabs at the barrier with his athame, but its ability to cut through “anything” apparently does not include magical walls or whatever the fuck this is._ _

__Sellen returns after Harry has worked up a sweat in his useless struggles. The hood of her grey cloak is lowered this time. She carries a wooden staff in her hand, and its power slams into Harry even through his shields. “What is that?” Harry breathes, eyes glued to the whorls._ _

__“A branch of Yggdrasil,” Sellen says, hands stroking the staff reverently. “A focus befitting of a goddess, do you not agree?”_ _

__“You’re insane,” Harry says, forgetting about his plan to not antagonise her. “We’re not meant to be gods.”_ _

__“‘Meant to be.’” Sellen sneers. “Those are just words meant to keep us in our place, to prevent us from aspiring for more.”_ _

__“Aspirations are one thing, but there is a reason that gods no longer exist in any of the realms.”_ _

__“There will be. I’m so close to ascension. Then, nothing can hurt me, demon, angel, psychic, or otherwise. This is my destiny.”_ _

__Her confidence allows no room for doubt. There is no way he can reason with her. “What are you going to do to me?” he asks, choking back his nausea. He’s in this circle for a reason. She’s wearing her sacrificial garb, holding a focus that can contain the power of multiple immortals._ _

__“I hold the power of six angels and six demons. The thirteenth sacrifice, however, has to be one born with similar status to me. Like I said, destiny. Fate brought you to me.”_ _

__“I’m a diviner, not a psychopomp,” Harry argues._ _

__Sellen sighs. “Unfortunately, there were only two other psychopomps. They suffered disappointing accidents during transport. But you’re a class 5 psychic, and the power of a diviner will stop me from mistaking an angel for a demon again.” She steps into the circle across from him. The array starts glowing._ _

__Fingers dig into him on the spirit plane, tearing out his magic inch by agonising inch. His strength gives in. He falls first on the physical plane. Then, his shields fall when he no longer has the magic to maintain them. There is nothing holding back his Sight, and Harry sees spirits with broken wings hovering over him. Thin fingers reach out._ _

__A hand rests on his shoulder. They’re offering comfort, Harry realises, and he’s close enough to death for them to make physical contact. He supposes he was always going to die among the dead. Will he leave behind a ghost? Will a psychic come for them and free them?_ _

__The ghost pushes him to his back and tugs on his arms, positioning his athame to point up. Ghostly hands wrap around his clasped fingers. “A power, freely given,” the ghost rasps and dives, impaling himself on the athame in his hand._ _

__His back arches in agonising pain as foreign magic floods him. The array burns even brighter around them, searing his eyes._ _

__Another ghost repeats the words and stabs himself on the athame. The power makes Harry feel as though he’s being torn to pieces, and he sobs, feeling his bones shatter and his skin crack. Somehow, his fingers still hold on to the athame. He doesn’t know if he can let go, can’t even try._ _

__The array is blinding. Spots dance across his eyes. Harry can no longer see Sellen. He doesn’t know if he can see at all._ _

__“My name is Zizia. Please tell my family where to find me,” a ghostly voice whispers to his ear. “You have the blessing of a demon, for what it’s worth. A power, freely given.”_ _

___I will_ , Harry thinks but he’s not sure he even has a throat anymore. _ _

__His body can’t contain anymore. The power breaks free. It turns out he can see. The spots clear as the ground shakes beneath his body. He hears a scream of rage. Then, the ceiling comes down, and Harry falls into blissful unconsciousness._ _

* * *

__Every inch of his body hurts. Even his eyelids hurt. This can’t possibly be the afterlife. Harry lifts a hand to brush away the weights holding his eyes closed, but his hand meets resistance._ _

__A hand laces with his fingers, gently pushing his arm back down. “Shh, you’re okay,” Tom says._ _

__Tom’s here? Harry fights his eyelids until they open, and he squints past the bright light to make sure he’s not imagining this. No, Tom is definitely here, sitting at his bedside. Which is not his bed. The sheets are scratchy, and he’s wearing some kind of drafty gown that lets the air in where the warm blanket doesn’t cover him._ _

__“What happened?” Harry rasps. His throat aches. Did he scream?_ _

__“There was a massive explosion in the Summer Court,” Tom said. “Apparently, Ida Sellen had enslaved one of the fae and was using their estate to conduct sacrifices before she migrated to the mortal realm. Thirdeye going to be involved in an extensive legal battle with Islemist for a long time.”_ _

__Harry can’t find it in him to be bothered by that. “Where am I?”_ _

__“Darkheart medical. Thirdeye wanted to take you, but I argued that since you were serving a demonic debt, you belonged to Darkheart. Which reminds me.” A scroll drops out from thin air. It bursts into flames and never hits the ground. “Your debt is paid. You’ve more than fulfilled your obligations.”_ _

__He should feel relief. He doesn’t. “So you’ll never darken my doorstep again?” Harry jokes feebly._ _

__“You can’t get rid of me that easily.”_ _

__A small smile spreads across his face for a moment. There’s one more question he has to ask, and he dreads the answer. “What happened to me?” He feels _different_ , as though his entire being has been changed. He’s a stranger in his own body now._ _

__“We’re not sure. To the best of our understanding, the sacrificial array was designed to contain a psychic, but a different power overwhelmed it, and it blew up on itself. You survived somehow. There were some strange test results, but overall, it looks like you’ll make a full recovery.”_ _

__“The ghost angels and demons trapped there,” Harry murmurs._ _

__“Maybe,” Tom says. “We don’t know.”_ _

__Harry doesn’t explain. “I think I’m going to go to sleep now,” he says, exhaustion weighing every limb down. “Will you stay?”_ _

__“Until you kick me out.”_ _

* * *

__Harry signs the discharge papers with a shaky hand, healed along with his new injuries by demonic magic. Tom grabs the paper bag holding his belongings, and Cedric wheels him out. Magical healing can do wonders, and Darkheart employs the best of the demonic doctors, but they can’t make miracles. His legs were broken in multiple places, and he’s going to need physical therapy to strengthen his new bones and muscles. For now though, he has a new pair of biker gloves to protect his hands as he uses the manual wheelchair. It’s disconcerting to feel someone pushing him along, but Harry’s fairly confident Cedric isn’t going to push him into a rubbish bin._ _

__Outside the facility, Tom helps him into the car as Cedric folds up the wheelchair. Tom drives sedately through the city, staying in the mortal realm. “Will you tell me how you cross realms?” Harry asks._ _

__“Magic, of course.” Tom laughs at Harry’s disgruntled expression, and joy bubbles in him too. “I was born with the ability,” he says. “It appears rarely, but several magical groups have produced weavers. No one is sure how.”_ _

__“Aren’t you afraid you’re going to…hit someone or something when you cross over?”_ _

__Tom shakes his head. “I can sense where I’m crossing to, and a failsafe blocks my transport if there is something in the way.”_ _

__“He was only forty when he dropped into the demonic realm for the first time,” Cedric says._ _

__“Aspirations to be a demon?” he asks lightly. Harry doesn’t know how to reassure Cedric that he’s okay, but he hopes that talking, reminding Cedric that he’s fine, will lessen the bitter guilt. They’ll probably need to have a conversation at one point so Harry can tell him that this was no one’s fault but Sellen’s._ _

__Tom snorts. “As if. I’d be suffocated in one of those damn family units. Did you know that they regularly squeeze dozens of people into tiny flats for parties? As if anyone needs that many parties in a lifetime. They don’t even do it for establishing connections. It’s just _for fun_.” The disgust rolls off him._ _

__“Don’t forget the communal spaces,” Cedric says, a hint of delight in his voice. “There’s a larger space for bigger gatherings of the whole community. Also, if someone decides they haven’t seen you in too long, they get a team and knock on your door until you give in.”_ _

__Tom fake-shudders. “Stop talking. You’ll give me nightmares.”_ _

__Harry laughs and feels some of the tension leak out of the car. They arrive at his flat, and Cedric helps him in. The crime scene team has gone and left, but there is still a hint of incubus power in the air. Harry reflexively flinches, but after almost being sacrificed, he can’t find it in him to still be scared. There are worse fates in this world._ _

__“Do you want us to stay in case you need help?” Cedric asks._ _

__He hesitates. His first instinct is to say no because he doesn’t want to bother them. However, he doesn’t want to be alone either. Would Cedric offer if he didn’t mean it? “I don’t want you to feel obligated,” he says. “This happened because of Sellen, not you, and I don’t blame you or hold you accountable or anything, and you don’t have to feel guilty.” Apparently, they’re having that conversation now, even though Harry hadn’t planned on blindsiding Cedric like this._ _

__“I’m not doing this because I feel guilty,” Cedric says. Tom snorts, and Cedric steps on his foot without missing a beat. “Well, not entirely. You’re a part of my community now, and I want to make sure you’re safe.”_ _

__“Is this you knocking on my door until I give in?”_ _

__“No. If you say no, we’ll walk away. Maybe an occasional call to check in, but this is your life and your home. If you don’t want us here, we won’t invade.”_ _

__“I want you here,” Harry says, “but I need to do something else first. Tom, will you bring me to the fae realm?”_ _

* * *

__The damage is catastrophic. What was once a beautiful land is now blackened, a perfect charred circle centred at the ruins of a mansion. Beside Cedric and Tom, Harry sits on the pristine green grass at the border and takes a deep breath. He’s here to fulfil a promise._ _

__“You okay?” Cedric asks him, hand on Harry’s shoulder._ _

__“Not really.” He wheels forward anyway._ _

__Sellen buried the dead on the property, a perversion of fae land. Harry doesn’t know where, but Cedric and Tom can sense the bones of their brethren. They walk along the black until Tom stops. “One here,” he says and marks the ground with an orange and black flag._ _

__Once every angel and demon burial are tagged, magic brings the bodies up. The dead do not decay in the fae realm, and the bodies lie peacefully, skin still warm and defensive wounds fresh. Harry does not recognise any of them, but he’ll learn their names._ _

__A power, freely given. The most powerful magic of all. Only magical beings can leave spirits behind because it takes a certain amount of power to do so. Harry leaves Tom and Cedric behind and wheels to the rubble. He stretches out his senses and opens his Sight._ _

__There are no spirits left. They gave their power to him, saving his life and destroying the array in the process._ _

__However, Harry sees something he does not expect. His hands fumble the seatbelt, and he pushes out of the chair and falls to the ground. Harry digs through the pieces of broken brick, stone, and wood until he sees a gargoyle encircling a small flame. The gargoyle wears a familiar collar on its neck. The wound on his foot is healed._ _

__“I need help over here!” he yells._ _

__Cedric and Tom are at his side in an instant. “Oh,” Cedric breathes and holds his hands out. The fire elemental’s eyes flicker open and it moves closer to Cedric. Its flame grows brighter and healthier. “There, that’s better, isn’t it? Let’s get you two some help, okay? You’re safe now.” He picks up the gargoyle with demonic strength and the elemental hops onto his shoulder. Cedric croons softly to them, taking them away from their prison._ _

__Harry walks back to the dug-up bodies and sits by the side of the red-haired woman with curly red hair as he watches Cedric soothe the Shadowkey captives and Tom dig through the next flagged piece of land_ _

__“Her name was Zizia,” Tom says suddenly. “She was four hundred and thirty-two years old, her favourite colour changed every time you asked, and she had wings of pink and black. She was an extremely agile flyer, and she taught Cedric all his aerial tricks. Sellen took her because she needed a demon after mistaking me for one and failing to sacrifice me.”_ _

__“Does she have family?” Harry asks._ _

__“An enormous one. I’ll deliver her body for the burning pyres.”_ _

__“Will you tell me about the others?”_ _

__“Of course. His name was Llewellyn…”_ _

* * *

__**2 months later** _ _

__“Someone’s here to see you,” Emma calls out from the other side of their shared office._ _

__Two minutes later, Tom walks in just as Harry is sliding his laptop and badge into his bag. In the month he’s been at Thirdeye, Harry has learned a few things about his senior partner. First, she’s a Shadowkey buyer but only because she’s the only spy that’s been able to get close before Thirdeye pulled her out. Second, she is always right. “Dinner?” Harry asks._ _

__“Yeah, Cedric is already waiting.”_ _

__Tom grabs Harry’s coat off the hanger and holds it up for him. Harry blushes a little and refuses to look at Emma, who he knows is grinning at the display. It’s his first date in over two years, his first date with two people ever, and Harry is barely holding back an idiotic smile at every romantic display._ _

__He has a weird empathy he can’t get rid of, but he also has a job, a senior partner who doesn’t hold a grudge against his part in drafting terrifying demonic lawyers forcing her to turn over her psychic record, a new set of wards on his flat that will stop anything short of a god from getting in without permission, and a date with two people he really, really likes. Life isn’t perfect, but it’s pretty damn close._ _


End file.
